


when one there are none

by foxwedding



Series: Round and Round [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Changelings, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Multi, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwedding/pseuds/foxwedding
Summary: Jaskier's living high in the lap of luxury when Geralt barrels back into his life.  The bard's been playing court songbird to one of Redania's higher marquises, delighting sheltered nobles with ballads of the countryside and general plight of the common folk.Then Geralt and Yennefer arrive and Jaskier becomes aware that something might be deeply wrong.Pre-Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Round and Round [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792105
Comments: 33
Kudos: 441





	when one there are none

**Author's Note:**

> CW: The rape presented is non-violent, though consent is dubious to say the least. Let me know if I missed any tags!

Jaskier's living high in the lap of luxury when Geralt barrels back into his life. The bard's been playing court songbird to one of Redania's higher marquises, delighting sheltered nobles with ballads of the countryside and general plight of the common folk. The enormous estate and township lies within the Pontar Valley, close to Rinde and not far from the capital city of Tretogar.

The court is occupied entirely by vindictive sycophants that are overly-concerned with decorum, and rather under-concerned with the looming threat of peasant rebellion, but it's all neither here nor there to Jaskier. The bard hates much of everything and everyone these days, and the contractual obligation to play nice with arrogant nobles fuels a spiteful hatred that feels rather cleansing in the aftermath of That Disaster on The Mountain.

The bard spends his days composing trite tunes in between transcribing arrangements for the rest of the court musicians—a harpist, a flautist, and a violist, all of whom Jaskier has slept with at least once. Once a fortnight or so, the Marquis holds some sort of celebratory banquet— particularly sumptuous affairs, even by Jaskier's own standards—requiring a four-piece musical ensemble equipped to perform all the most modern compositions. Early on, the prospect had been ideal for Jaskier, who was searching desperately for an undertaking that would relieve him of the freedom to dwell on his life's failings. 

Now, with each passing no-expense-spared orgy, the unrest among the lower-townsfolk increases tangibly. Jaskier knows how this will playout, has seen it too many times to count. He and the other musicians have begun to idly speculate on when to flee the township. Privately, Jaskier's decided to depart after Mabon— once summer has ended, the inevitable approach of winter will surely spur the peasantry to drastic measures. The bard's tried to leave several times already, but in each instance, he gets to the perimeter of keep and just— _loses the will._ Where would he even go? But this time—this time, it will be real. Truly, he wants no business with a peasant rebellion.

And speaking of things Jaskier would like to wash his hands of: The Marquis, who's begun to call the bard to his bedchambers with ever-increasing frequency. The whole affair was rather enjoyable in the beginning, giving Jaskier a much-needed release and distraction. However, the passing months have proven the man to be a rather selfish and brutish lover, much to Jaskier's dismay. And even the Marchioness— who's bed Jaskier's also attended a handful of times— is of a similarly greedy disposition. 

All-in-all, Jaskier's spent the last two years slaving over musical transcriptions and plucking at his lute until his callouses had callouses, while letting any and all interested parties take him to bed. On the one hand, he's expanded both his musical and sexual repertoire to an extent he previously thought himself incapable of. On the other, he's not composed a single meaningful piece of music since his arrival. Additionally, he's starting to suspect that his indiscriminate promiscuity has done fuck-all to alleviate the heartbreak of Geralt's rejection. 

Still, he goes to the Marquis when called, as if he's suffering from a compulsion to constantly confirm that, yes, empty and loveless fucks still have not snuffed the painful, tenacious flame of his pining. Jaskier's honest enough to admit to himself that he's let his thoughts stray to the silver-haired man more than once while being held face-down in the velvet pillows of the royal bed. 

He wonders if the man is even still alive in the wake of Cintra's fall— and he _refuses_ to even consider the lion cub's fate. There's a certain foolish hopefulness that accompanies unanswered questions. 

~ + ~

Two days before Mabon, Jaskier awakens to the decision that he no longer holds love for this court, these people, or this music. It's just as well, as whispers of rebel guards within the keep have reached his ears from a few well-meaning locals. In light of this, Jaskier unearths his purse— heavy with coin, seeing as his food and lodgings have been provided for the past two years.

The city-square market is bustling this morning, a flurry of color and movement, laden carts rattling over cobblestone, vendors shouting out their wares. Jaskier purchases a summer peach and a warm cheese roll for breakfast as he picks his way through the current with practiced efficiency.

He's got a list of provisions to acquire before he leaves, and just the thought of returning to the open road has him feeling lighter already. At the luthier's shop he buys two new sets of catgut strings for his lute, as well as a stopped vial of linseed oil to polish its wooden body. The papermaker provides him with fresh parchment, linen papers, and cane quills, and Jaskier splurges additionally on a jar of cobalt-blue ink. He gets fresh bone needles and an assortment of silk threads to mend his doublets, and a bottle of neroli-amber oil to keep himself perfumed.

This time around, Jaskier's going to be slightly more practical, he thinks. He purchases a couple pairs of plain, black breeches and linen chemises that lace up the front, a pair of sturdy black boots, and a doublet in black silk with golden embroidery that he just _couldn't_ resist. He'll keep his fine court apparel folded inside his pack, only to be donned for performances.

With his purse considerably lighter, Jaskier treats himself to two honeycakes and a mug of ale, licking his fingers after each bite while the baker regales him with woes of his useless son-in-law. 

As the bard moves to leave, the baker clasps his forearm meaningfully, muttering a low, "You'll be wantin' to leave soon, bard, see?" The man's eyes are tired and old.

Dread curls in Jaskier's gut, but he keeps his tone blasé as he replies, "Oh, right after Mabon, I expect."

The baker clucks his tongue. "Cuttin' it a wee close— no later, I'd say." He nods once afterwards, which Jaskier takes to mean that the conversation is finished. _Two begets two,_ he thinks out of nowhere.

Jaskier returns to the palace and stows his purchases in a locked trunk at the foot of his bed. His quarters are small, the furnishings meager, but the window overlooks the north court and the snow-capped peaks in the far distance. It's served him well for the time being.

Lute in hand, he makes his way to the south end of the keep, to an isolated alcove that's been designated as rehearsal space. There, he waits for the others to arrive. As Master Bard, he's the only member of the ensemble that resides on the premises— the other musicians travel in from mid-town.

It's two days from the Mabon festival now, and Jaskier's been given a list of requested songs to be performed. Jaskier spends the rest of the day arranging accompaniments with the ensemble, the four of them picking through tunes and settling into meter and agreeing on harmonies. 

~ + ~

In the evening, Jaskier's summoned to Marquis's bedchambers, yet again. He baths thoroughly and loosens himself a bit with some oil. He no longer trusts the other man to do this part sufficiently— there have been too many instances of the Marquis helping himself to Jaskier's person, shoving inside with too little lubrication and even less preparation. 

Tonight, however, Jaskier's ministrations seem to be unnecessary. He's on his knees now, perched between the Marquis's thighs as the man lounges back in a cushioned throne chair, lazily undulating himself in and out of Jaskier's mouth. There's a tight fist in the bard's hair, right at the crown of his head, and his knees ache terribly against the cold stone floor.

This treatment does absolutely nothing for Jaskier, who idly wonders how he'll take care of himself when he returns to his own chambers, while presently trying to remember to keep his jaw relaxed. The Marquis readjusts the angle of his hips, and Jaskier moves accordingly, emitting the kind of breathy moans he knows the other man just _loves _to hear— as if Jaskier loves _nothing more_ than to have his mouth used—__

"Mmm, _yes_ love, you like that, don't you?" Jaskier refrains from rolling his eyes at the man's mutterings. 

— Anyways, back to Jaskier's musings. He'll use his fingers, certainly— no need for his preparation to go to waste. _Or maybe_ —he's got that wonderful toy he picked up in Cizmar, it's got such a stimulating shape and lovely girth— yes, that's the plan.

Finally, the Marquis finishes and Jaskier swallows the bitter mouthful down, out of habit. As always, the man pulls the bard up and guides him to sit on his knee, as if Jaskier's a child sitting in his father's lap. Every time it's entirely disconcerting, and every time Jaskier only barely manages to hold his tongue about it.

"There now," the Marquis coos, steading a hand at the small of Jaskier's back. "That was wonderful, love." 

"I live to please, Your Grace," Jaskier retorts somewhat flippantly. The hand at his back shifts to a tight grip around one hip— a warning.

"Such cheek," the man admonishes lowly. "Are you looking for a flogging? If you want a rougher fucking, you only need to say so, love."

Jaskier declines to respond, instead focusing his attention on the pendant hanging between the man's pectorals. Jaskier cannot understand anyone wearing such an ugly piece of jewelry, let alone the Marquis that outranks Jaskier's own father and plays favorite to the Redanian king. There's no accounting for taste, the bard supposes.

"Answer me, Julian!" the Marquis suddenly barks, and Jaskier startles in his lap. "Have I been too precious with you?" The man is good-looking, deceptively so, and it works to well to hide the ugliness underneath, Jaskier's found.

Jaskier averts his gaze. "No, Your Grace."

"Apologize for your indecorum, Julian," the man presses, though his demeanor has softened a touch.

Jaskier wants to refuse. Wants to scream demeaning insults, to spit in the man's face. But the thought evokes a seed of nausea, so he swallows it all down.

"My apologies, Your Grace," he hears himself mutter.

"No more of that, now," the man replies magnanimously, pushing to his feet and causing Jaskier to clamor away. "To your quarters, with you. I've to see to some guests, now."

The bard sulks all the way back to bed— but mostly because the Marquis's managed to snuff out all traces of Jaskier's previous arousal. 

~ + ~

In the late morning of the next day, Jaskier finds himself sprawled sideways in an upholstered, high-backed chair, his head resting on one arm, his legs bent over the other, crossed at the ankle. He strums his lute lazily, humming lowly, looking every part the exotic caged bird that he is.

As-per-usual, the Marquis has forgone holding court for the lower-townsfolk in favor of lounging about with assorted nobles. They're sitting about in the throne room, around a table of fruit and cheese, swapping stories of obscene extravagance and being appallingly posh. The Marquis always displays Jaskier prominently in settings like these— he's the traveled, young musician. Pretty to look at, nice to listen to, and always brimming with entertaining stories of dubious origin. By all accounts, Jaskier's in his natural habitat. Except for that he's not, because these people are empty, devoid of the kind of passion that can be infused into music, utterly lacking in love for life.

He barely pays attention when he hears the Marquis clap his hands somewhere out of eye sight. The man's about to make an announcement that will have the other nobles scrambling for his favor, Jaskier just fucking _knows_ it. The Marquis loves nothing more than to dangle false promises and watch desperate people claw at one another to snap at them.

"Yes, of course!" The man is proclaiming now, hands clasped together in delight. "Our guests!"

The great wooden doors of the hall are creaking open, accompanied by the tell-tale, clanging footfalls of the guards. Jaskier makes the barest necessary effort to turn his head and see these guests— then immediately double takes when he realizes he's watching Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerburg stroll into the throne room, their combined presence a breathtaking vision of power.

Jaskier blinks at the scene. Blinks again when he recognizes that these events are real. And then lets his head fall back against the armrest in utter indignation. Emotionally, he's flown past shock, anger, and self-consciousness, and landed squarely in supreme irritation— mostly due to instant realization that, while Geralt hadn't made any effort to repair his friendship with Jaskier, _clearly,_ he'd possessed both the time and motivation to do so with Yennefer. And wasn't that just fine news, indeed.

Jaskier looks up at the vaulted, frescoed ceiling, and gives himself ten seconds to brood, counting the numbers out with his exhales. Then, he collects himself and heaves to an upright seated position, one foot tucked up onto the cushion, his lute cradled in the crook of his elbow. The nobles stand about in various states of incredulity— some shying away in poorly-disguised trepidation, others leaning forward in blatant fascination. 

Both Geralt and Yennefer are still strikingly beautiful, _of course,_ Jaskier thinks spitefully. The witcher's in his usual attire, standing tall and imposingly in various shades of black. His hair is tied back from his handsome face, his movements quiet and graceful, his eyes clear and sharp.

The Marquis's on a monologue now, about something or other, but Jaskier pays it no mind. He's too preoccupied trying to withhold a physical reaction when those cat-eyes cut quickly to his own, hold his gaze for a mere half-second, and then dismiss him in favor of the Marquis. There's a specific kind of inadequacy that the Witcher evokes in Jaskier, so familiar that it almost feels like home. The bard distracts himself by examining Yennefer.

The sorceress is glancing about the room disdainfully, looking so deeply uninterested in the proceedings that Jaskier almost snorts. She's as stunning as she always is, her lavish velvet dress falling in precise folds that accentuate her silhouette, all designed to draw attention to herself, her clever mouth, her violet eyes. She's a woman defined by chaos— she embodies it, directs it, gives it tangible form. 

As if sensing the examination, Yennefer glances over to him, not one iota of surprise registering in her expression. That's how low Jaskier falls on her radar, he thinks to himself. Her gaze flits down the length of his body, and it requires more energy than Jaskier would like in order to remain still.

Then Jaskier's name is being called— he follows the sound of it, finding the Marquis addressing him expectantly.

"Julian, this is the man you traveled with, is it not?" The tone of question is light, almost careless of the response, but Jaskier knows better.

"For a while," Jaskier intones, letting one shoulder shrug up as if the ordeal is of no importance to him. The Marquis's gaze is penetrating, lasting only a half-second longer than usual, but it's enough to set Jaskier on edge immediately.

"Ah, a reunion is in order then, of course," the Marquis claps his hands together once. "You'll join us for dinner, Julian." It's not a request. Jaskier looks at the man and tries to disguise his utter abhorrence for that idea.

"If it pleases you," Jaskier shrugs again. The Marquis's expression has a disconcerting manic quality to it.

"Wonderful! Well then, Witcher, My Lady, let us retire to talk in private." 

Jaskier and the nobles watch as the Marquis departs with the witcher, sorceress, and a handful of cabinet members in tow. It's clear they've been dismissed, and so the bard swipes up his lute and retreats to his quarters as quickly as possible without breaking into a run. He feels simultaneously numb yet overwhelmed, freezing, yet he's sweating through his chemise.

He strips down to his underclothing after locking the door behind him. From the wash basin, he splashes a bit of cool water onto his face and down his neck, leaning his weight on the lips of the porcelain. 

Jaskier doesn't want to feel right now, doesn't want to think, or eat, or play music, or go flirt with the stable hands, or—

He pulls himself onto his bed and burrows under the woolen comforter.

Jaskier doesn't know what he wants, so he just— _sleeps._

~ + ~

Jaskier dreams. It's the same thing over and over and _over_ but he can't quite discern what he's seeing or hearing. He just keeps replaying the sensory information, trying to get something concrete to stick to his conscious. But nothing stays— only a sense of frustration and the kind of blind panic that accompanies utterly endless repetition.

_When one, I have none._

He awakens to knocking.

Judging by the angle of the sunlight, it's mid-afternoon. Jaskier glances frantically around the room and tries to orient himself— the Marquis can't possibly be summoning him right now, it's still daylight out.

The pounding at his door continues.

Jaskier blearily pulls on a thin chemise and a pair of loose linen breeches that he keeps for lounging about. He stumbles to the entrance, one hand holding the collar of his unlaced shirt closed.

He pulls the door halfway open before realizing who's on the other side.

"No." Jaskier states, moving quickly to slam the door back into its frame. Geralt's foot stops the motion.

"Jaskier," the witcher hisses as the bard attempts to kick his foot out of the way of the closing door.

There's a split-second push-pull struggle before a burst of light blinds him from the side. Vibrations run the length of the wood, and suddenly the hinges at the door edge detach from the frame in the wall. Jaskier momentarily panics when the weight of the heavy wood begins to fall inwards, on top of him, but a beat later two hands are grabbing either side of the panel and leaning it askew in the entrance way.

Jaskier stares mournfully at his door while Geralt and Yennefer push past him and into his quarters. The bard sighs and tells himself to accept defeat. When he turns, Yennefer's looking around the room curiously while Geralt stares him down.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Jaskier exhales, gesturing blindly to the detached door.

Yennefer's iris flash violet and bright, and a thump and a clang sound from somewhere behind him. Without looking, Jaskier infers that the door is back in its hinges and attached to the frame.

"You look entirely unaged," Yennefer announces, apropos of absolutely nothing. Jaskier stops short— that doesn't _sound_ like an insult, but one can never be too sure with the sorceress. It's entirely possible that she's mocking him. He narrows his eyes at her, just in case. "And disturbingly silent." She tacks on at the end. 

"I don't understand what kind of fight were meant to be having right now," Jaskier admits, sidestepping the provocation entirely.

"None whatsoever," she informs him. "Geralt desires to speak with you."

Jaskier snorts. "Highly unlikely." He turns to the witcher. "What kind of contract brings you to the Valley, of all places?"

"Hmm," the witcher responds, and Jaskier chides himself for assuming he'd get any sort of answer whatsoever. "How did you meet the Marquis?" The man's asking instead.

Jaskier purses his lips. "Banquet in Novigrad."

"And what was the nature of your hiring?" Geralt presses, suspicion evident in his tone.

Jaskier bristles. "You _really_ don't think much of me, do you?" Does the man seriously think the bard incapable of acquiring a court contract?

Yes, the bard's hiring was unusual, to say the least— what with Jaskier being three sheets to the wind, the Marquis's relentlessly pursuing his attention, followed by the man's strange manner of negotiation—

— _"Such a pretty thing. How about this— you answer my riddle, I'll fetch you another honeyed mead. If not, you will come play in my court and take me as your lord." And oh, Jaskier can barely see straight, but the man's smile is wicked and promising and Jaskier is so sad and so angry and so, so lonely._

__

__

_"Do you accept these terms?"_

_Jaskier could have only ever given one answer—_

"I don't understand where your concern lies—it was a verbal contract— _which,_ might I add, is not uncommon for musicians."

"Hmm."

"Right," Jaskier sighs when it's clear the witcher will speak no more. "And Yennefer is here because…"

"Rumors that one of the nobles in this court got their hands on an Eye of the Orchard." She supplies readily, her tone somehow both bored and condescending.

"A what?" Jaskier doesn't even pretend to feign interest, instead busying himself with his chemise laces as he asks.

"A stone tablet— or something similar. I'll recognize it when I see the inscriptions." Yennefer waves one elegant hand in the air, entirely unconcerned and supremely confident.

"Hmm, well good luck with that," the bard responds dryly, knotting the laces and tucking them into the collar.

"Bard, you're familiar with this court," the sorceress continues on, "Which of these overstuffed sycophants tends towards mage work?"

"The Baron and Baroness Peyran," Jaskier replies easily.

"You'll introduce us then," Yennefer instructs, raising one expectant eyebrow as if to give the illusion that she's asking and not ordering.

Jaskier snorts. "If you want. Be warned, if you ask for favors, they'll want you to join them in bed first— and then make you mediate the entire encounter." The bard groans exhaustedly at his own memories. "It's so tedious, I cannot even begin to explain."

"I'm sure I can manage navigating two nobles while keeping my dignity," she snorts in his direction. "Unlike you, it sounds like," she tacks on at the end.

Jaskier scowls. "A pleasure as always, Yennefer— when did you say you'd be leaving?"

"Remains to be seen," she answers casually, her gaze cutting to Geralt as she speaks.

The witcher clears his throat and looks at Jaskier. The man's eyes have softened, and he holds himself somewhat awkwardly.

"You look— good." Geralt mutters, clearly already out of his emotional depth.

Jaskier grimaces and considers all the ways he could direct this conversation. _Should he yell? Demand an apology? Apologize himself and ask to travel alongside the man again? Pretend it all never happened?_ The bard wipes his hands down his face and sighs.

"I don't want to do this, Geralt," he admits softly. "I'm really much too tired." It's not a solution. It's not even a step forward. But its honest. Jaskier holds himself around the waist.

The witcher looks utterly stricken.

"Jaskier—" Geralt steps forwards but is halted further by Yennefer's hand at his shoulder. A wordless conversation passes between her and the witcher, and watching it makes Jaskier unspeakably jealous.

"Bard," Yennefer intones, "we'll see you at dinner."

The door shuts quietly behind them and Jaskier stands at his window until he's summoned to the hall.

~ + ~

Dinner goes about as well as expected. The banquet hall is vast and echoing. All its wooden pillars are shaped with ornate carvings and all its walls are smothered with the Marquis's coat of arms— each ostentatiously adorned with gold leafing.

Jaskier picks at the roast pheasant to maintain the appearance of eating, but he's got very little appetite. The conversation is held afloat by the Marquis and Yennefer, who converse superficially about the misfortune of Cintra and the role of mage work in Nilgaardian battle strategy. The bard thinks it's an entirely unpleasant topic, but he's impressed by the sorceress's political savvy and her ability to obscure her own war contributions with clever turnabout.

"Well, Belohun _certainly_ didn't fare well," the Marquis remarks, catching Jaskier's attention. "But Emreis is shrewd man— Kerackian woodworking is truly superior. Clever of him to outsource— although unfortunate about the besiegement, I'll admit."

"Kerack fell?" Jaskier asks, immediately thinking of his family, the estate. _By Melitele,_ has he been so far removed from the rest of the world here?

The Marquis waves the concern away, "Oh no, they were only occupied a short time." He gestures at Jaskier with his fork, "Your cousin tells me all is well now."

Jaskier frowns as he considers the words— _his cousin._

Wait, what?

"You know Ferrant?" Jaskier starts. He's bewildered— why hadn't this information revealed itself earlier?

"Mm," the Marquis confirms, forking a bit of roast into his mouth. "We've traded steadily with Kerack for many decades. I've met the Lettenhoves many a time— including you father, I believe."

Jaskier frowns. "You never said," he says slowly, cautiously. Unease gnaws a hollow in his gut.

The Marquis shrugs it all away with a blasé, "Oh, I'm sure I must've mentioned it at some point."

Jaskier puts down his fork and reaches for his wine instead. "Of course," he agrees, somewhat unsteadily.

Across from him, Yennefer and Geralt are watching on keenly— Yenn's scrutinizing gaze on Jaskier, Geralt's on the Marquis.

"In fact," the Marquis continues, unperturbed. "I remember you as a child." The man chews on a bit of meat and meets Jaskier's gaze head on. In the corner of Jaskier's vision, Geralt's grip on his utensil is white-knuckled, the metal starting to bend with the force of it.

 _He must be lying_ , the bard reasons. Otherwise, the man that's been fucking Jaskier for two years has willfully neglected to mention that he'd previously known him. That just _doesn't_ happen.

"Really now?" Jaskier sits up taller and shovels a bit of glazed root into his mouth, mostly for show. "What was I like?" 

"Oh, quite feral, I'm afraid," the Marquis informs him, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Always running about, playing tricks, singing riddles—", Jaskier nearly rolls his eyes at the statement. The bard does all the same presently, so it's not a stretch to assume he'd been a troublesome child. The Marquis is lying and Jaskier almost slumps with relief at that fact. 

But then the man continues, "—in fact, Ferrant told me all about the little ditty you sang that caused all of Kerack to forget your brother's birth name!"

A handful of disparate images float up to Jaskier's consciousness— a scattering of biscuit crumbs across a dirt path, Marek's face twisted in cruel satisfaction- _no wait,_ utter horror, now, and his parent's faces as well and everyone's screaming—

 _Did that happen?_ Jaskier lets the images settle in his body for a moment— they weigh heavily, like a memory. That _did happen._ _Oh wow,_ he hasn't thought about that in—years? Before he left for Oxenfurt, even. _Huh._

But no wait, how can that be—a song to erase a name? _That's—_

Gods, his head _aches._

There's a firm grip on his upper arm.

"Love," the Marquis begins, soft and fondly, but his eyes are flat as ever and Jaskier knows better. "You're quite pale— are you feeling well?"

Jaskier inhales sharply. Something is deeply wrong here. The bard recognizes when information is being withheld from him. But of what type, he hasn't the faintest clue. 

He sets his goblet down and pushes back from the table. "I really must retire to my room, I'm not myself at the moment."

Across from him, Geralt seems poised to launch himself from his chair while Yenn's glancing between Jaskier and the Marquis with an intensity that _could_ be misconstrued as concern— if Jaskier wanted to lie to himself.

"Of course, love," the Marquis nods in agreement. The bard realizes this is what the man wanted all along— for Jaskier to leave. His own presence must be some sort of pawn in whatever contract he's negotiating with Geralt. Unfortunately for the Marquis, it won't lean in his favor, as neither the witcher nor the sorceress are particularly fond of the bard. 

Jaskier would almost feel embarrassed for himself, except that he's much too relieved by the opportunity to escape this horrible dinner. He takes his leave with all the grace he can muster, feeling his shoulders relax only after he exits the banquet hall.

Later, when he lies down to sleep, he wraps his blankets as tightly as possible around his shaking body and tries to recall his mother's smell.

~ + ~

The morning of Mabon, Jaskier wakes and immediately packs his bag. It's quick work— he doesn't have much in the way of personal belongings, and he'll leave his stacks of musical transcriptions to the ensemble. He wants to be on the road by the dawn's break tomorrow, the baker's warning hanging heavily over him.

He sends a chambermaid for breakfast, and she returns with warm porridge and fresh berries in syrup. As he sits on his bed and spoons the hot mixture into his mouth, the door whines on its hinges and Geralt and Yennefer slip into his quarters.

Jaskier eyes the smatterings of small bruises on one side of Geralt's neck— looks like he and Yennefer managed to have a pleasant night even after that terrible dinner. Jaskier swallows down his initial jealousy— he's always known the witcher wasn't his, this is not a new realization. It is, however, a reminder of feelings he hasn't had to contend with in a long while. The bard exhales slowly and tells himself to let it go. He surprised to find that, underneath the bitter envy, is the calm appreciation that at least Geralt has someone at his side— even if it's not Jaskier.

He certainly cannot blame the man for chasing after Yennefer— who's both stunning beautiful and painfully broken, wrapped in sadness and cruelty and always reaching for that beyond her grasp. A magnetic enigma, much like Geralt himself. Jaskier thinks he would be half in love with the woman himself, if not for the emotional carnage she always leaves in her wake.

 _So it goes,_ he thinks sadly. _With three, I have three._

"Are you feeling better?" Geralt asks in his gravelly rasp.

Jaskier grunts, hoping to convey his intent to avoid such a conversation.

"What's this?" Yennefer asks, nodding to his stuffed pack and the lute case lying beside it.

"Leaving after the performance tonight," Jaskier tells her through a mouthful of breakfast, and she sneers at the sight. "Not sure if anyone's informed you— there's to a be rebellion any day now. Was going to tell you, but, you know. I forgot."

Geralt snorts and helps himself to a berry, plunging his bare fingers right into the pot.

"Gods, you're barbaric," Jaskier groans, pulling his own bowl out of reach. The witcher feigns like he's going to follow it, but Jaskier stops him by planting a foot squarely in the center of the man's chest.

One corner of Geralt's lips twitches up and he wraps a warm, calloused hand around Jaskier's ankle. At first, the bard believes he's going to be dragged off the bed and he hastens to set his bowl on the woolen comforter. But then Geralt does nothing at all, just stands there, holding Jaskier's foot to his chest and meeting his gaze. There a long, drawn out moment in which neither speaks. To Jaskier's chagrin, he feels his heart quicken.

"I _am_ sorry," Geralt finally murmurs, squeezing the bard's ankle once. He swallows and adds, "I've missed you."

Jaskier sighs heavily. Closes his eyes and reaches for his humanity. He feels himself age a decade. "Okay," he accepts after some time. 

Over by the window, Yennefer's deliberately not looking at them, instead thumbing through a stack of Jaskier's manuscripts. 

"Your presence is more than I deserve, and I—" the man swallows in an unprecedented display of emotion. "I wanted to make you go away before you could decide to leave me."

Jaskier nods. He'd always known the true nature of Geralt's outburst, but it had still crushed the bard nonetheless. He feels his own resolve crumble.

"So, we agree that _you_ ruined your _own_ life, then?" Just one last barb, on principle.

There's a low chuckle by the window, and when Jaskier glances over, Yenn's got her knuckles pressed tightly to her lips, gaze still on the parchments.

"Hmm," the witcher responds, kneading his fingers into the muscles around Jaskier's ankle bone. It feels _divine._

The moment ends with a quiet knock at his door.

"Master Bard?" He hears a chambermaid through the wood. "The ensemble awaits in the south annex."

Jaskier swaps the bowl for his lute and retrieves the stack of musical notation from Yennefer's hands. She and Geralt follow him out of the room.

"I've got rehearsal until the festivities tonight, and then I'll be leaving with dawn," he begins. Timidly he adds, "Perhaps I'll meet you two again on the road, after your contract." Jaskier meets both their gazes and tries for a smile, but thinks he probably doesn't succeed. 

"Be safe," he requests, walking away while telling himself it matters not if he sees them again.

~ + ~

Jaskier spends the rest of the day in grueling rehearsal. Though they're able to pick through the pieces with practiced ease, the requested repertoire seems endless, and the bard's already fairly emotionally frayed.

Added on top is the general frenzy of the castle as staff runs about, fulfilling all the preparations. Cooks carry crate after crate of summer fruit and greens into the kitchen, chambermaids bat dust out of the tapestries like madwomen, children run about the keep, wildly unsupervised. Nobles arrive by horse or carriage, an endless stream of them all day.

And underneath, the hushed whispers behind hands, the uneasy glances towards the entrance gates, the wringing of hands— all of which further bolster Jaskier's decision to leave by the end of the festivities. 

By the time Jaskier's bathed and donned his court finery, he's on edge, thoroughly frazzled, and eager to get on with the night. And judging by his fellow musician's expressions, they feel much the same. Somehow, without ever speaking aloud, it's tacitly acknowledged that all four of them will be fleeing the castle tonight.

The Marquis calls for them when the banquet hall is already full and lively. It's a sea of self-important chatter and opulent dresses and twinkling jewelry. Casks of wine and ale line one wall, wheels of cheese and bowls of fruit and platters of roast meat weigh down the tables. 

The four them arrange themselves on a raised platform in a designated area at the front of the hall. A delighted commotion arises at the prospect of music and dance. Finally they play, churning out slipjig after slipjig, reel after reel, popular folk songs whose origins range from as far the Dragon Mountains to the Beauclair vineyards.

Jaskier relaxes into the music, lets the melodic contours and simple rhythms soothe his bones. _Everything will be fine,_ he thinks. 

They take a short break to fortify themselves with food and drink, and it's during this time that Yennefer of Vengerburg snatches Jaskier by the arm and pulls him into a secluded alcove. Jaskier's surprised— he hadn't seen them in the crowd, hadn't believed they'd even be in attendance given Geralt's distain for all things fun.

"Jaskier," she barks, and it's so rare that she addresses him by name that the bard snaps to attention. The sorceress's lips are downturned and there's a deep furrow between her brows. Her gaze searches the crowd endlessly, and Jaskier surmises—

"Ah. Still haven't found your Eye, I gather?" 

Yennefer rolls her eyes, which confirms Jaskier's supposition. Geralt's joined them now, coming up behind the sorceress with a pained expression. A banquet of these proportions must be _hell_ on the witcher's senses.

"Would you like me to introduce you to the Baron?" Jaskier offers half-heartedly, praying she won't take him up on it. 

"They don't know anything. They're utter fools," she bites out, and the bard nods his head in regard to that assessment. He turns to greet the witcher.

"Geralt! Imagine my surprise to find you in this setting! Thought for sure you'd be squirreled away, working on your contract."

The man grimaces, "If only. I'm not present of my own accord. Your Marquis's demanded it."

Jaskier's not shocked. "Ah yes. He does so love to flaunt his exotic caged specimens."

Beside him, Yennefer's reaching into the neckline of her own dress, pulling a bit of folded parchment from between her breasts. Jaskier blinks and wonders if his eyes fed his brain the correct information. Before he can question it, she's shoving the paper in his face, shaking it irritably.

 _"This,"_ she's demanding. "This—have you seen it?"

Jaskier bats her hand away from his face and takes the parchment. He smooths it between his fingers, stomach dropping like a stone when he recognizes the poorly scribbled image.

 _"This_ is the Eye?" He asks incredulously. "You're sure?"

 _"Yes_ — you've seen it?" She sounds breathless.

And yeah, Jaskier's seen it. But it's no stone or tablet. It's the ugly pendant that always hangs from the Marquis's neck, hidden under his clothing.

Jaskier sighs tiredly and wipes one hand down his face. "Yeah, I've seen it. He wears it on a chain." He hopes they correctly infer that he's talking of the Marquis.

"No man should have it, Bard." Yennefer intones, worry lining her expression.

"Oh ho! But _you_ should?" Jaskier counters, voicing what goes unsaid.

"Better Yenn than _him,"_ Geralt grunts disdainfully.

Someone's tugging at the crook of Jaskier's elbow— the harpist. His break is over apparently. Yennefer grabs at his other elbow, digging her talon-like nails into the silk of his doublet. She looks _afraid._

"Provide a distraction, _Julian."_ She hisses, and somehow, her speaking his birth name hits like soft blow to the gut. Under different circumstances Jaskier thinks he'd recoil from the demand, but he can feel her intentions— she's asking for help.

He nods wordlessly and lets himself be guided back to the front of the hall. They spend a couple of songs resettling into the atmosphere before Jaskier turns to the other three musicians.

"We're going to make it lively, now," he instructs, "Put some _feeling_ into it, yeah?"

The flautist shrugs and tips back the rest of his goblet. The harpist and the violist follow suit.

"That's the proper attitude!" Jaskier commends, grinning widely as he looks across the hall. 

The majority of guests are seated now, talking animatedly and gesturing about with their cutlery. At the head of the arrangement sits the Marquis— the Marchioness on one side of him, Geralt and Yennefer on the other. _Huh._

Jaskier sets a markedly faster pace for their next reel, pleased when the other musicians adjust seamlessly. He finds himself relaxing into the music again, his hands operating almost without the input of his brain. He watches the crowd keenly— hmmm a distraction, a distraction, he thinks and searches for.

He watches lords drink deeply from their cups, ladies chatter conspiratorially into each other's ears. Bejeweled hands flutter about, grabbing at various cuts of meat, reaching for more ale, pawing at each other under the table. 

_How does one stir a crowd?_ Jaskier wonders and tries to recall the frenzied atmosphere of this year's infamous Beltane orgy. The bard wills himself to emote more, pushing his intent into his voice and the deliberation of his strumming, emphasizing the discordant nature of some notes while softening the resolution of others. 

The crowd slowly reacts to the new upbeat tempo, laughter becoming higher pitched, gestures less restricted, conversation no doubt more salacious. Jaskier eyes the way wine is being poured into already brimming goblets and thinks, _yes— more of that!_

Jaskier continues with this train of thought for the next several songs, watching as the wine appears to do his work for him. Guests are no longer bothering to obscure the way they grab at their bench neighbors' legs, tittering uncontrollably, and several noblemen loosen the lacing of their chemises to air their flushed chests. A few paces away from the bard, one woman has worked her hand under the skirts of another, slowly pushing the fabric up the other's legs as she works towards her goal. _By Melitele,_ Jaskier thinks. _What on earth is in the wine?_

The bard lets his voice go a bit raspy in manner that he knows is quite attractive, roughening the pure pitches of his tone with a bit of breathiness. Near the back of the hall, he thinks he witnesses a lady shift to sit directly onto the lap of the man next to her. _These nobles are an utter tragedy,_ Jaskier thinks with absolute delight.

The atmosphere is downright rowdy now, heavy with the overtone of arousal and general revelry. Amidst the drowning roar of the hall, Jaskier hears his own name being called— the Marquis's beckoning him over with one finger, the man's grin a thing of animal satisfaction and his chemise unlaced nearly halfway down his chest. A sudden thought occurs to Jaskier.

The bard hops down from their raised platform, not once pausing in his singing. Behind him, the ensemble has quickly caught on, and plays on as usual. _The only true heroes,_ Jaskier thinks fondly of his musicians.

He makes his way to the Marquis, stepping slowly and deliberately, smiling full of promises. Around him, the guests rage on mindlessly. As he approaches, the Marquis pushes his seat back from the table, just a bit, patting his leg, and Jaskier pauses in his strumming to settle fluidly into the man's lap.

Beside him, the Marchioness appears to have her hands in the breeches of the nobleman on her other side. Jaskier snorts, shifting until he's seated comfortably, the Marquis's arousal evident where it's pressed against the side of Jaskier's hip. Shockingly, the wine has even mellowed out both Geralt and Yennefer, who are curled towards each other affectionately, although they're both watching Jaskier. They're going to be mortified in the morning.

Jaskier sets his lute delicately onto the table and leans into the Marquis's embrace.

"An absolutely striking performance, love," the man's murmuring in his ear.

The bard turns to him and affects his best bedroom eyes. "You really think?" His tone is soft and coy, and he meets the man's gaze readily, though his attention is entirely on the pendant that's caught beneath the fabric of his chemise.

Jaskier steadies himself with one hand against the man's bare pectoral, lightly raking his nails at the skin there. The Marquis groans in approval. Jaskier wets his lips and keeps his gaze lowered, like he's willing but shy— exactly what drives the man mad. Soon enough, there's a firm hand curling under his jaw, guiding Jaskier's lips to his own.

The bard parts his lips slowly against the Marquis's, petting the man's chest lightly, his fingertips catching the chain of the necklace. Jaskier shifts to deepen the kiss, curling his hand under the other's chemise as he does so. He then angles his wrist so that, when he slides his hand back up, the pendant is directed right into the open sleeve of his doublet.

Jaskier bites at the Marquis's lower lip and curls his hand under one ear. He kisses across the man's cheek, down to where his neck meets his jaw, and nips firmly at the skin to distract from the way his fingers unclasp the necklace. The weight of the pendant pulls the remaining loose chain into his sleeve seamlessly. Jaskier pulls back.

And then, in a feat of timing that couldn't be more perfect, one of the guards is bending down and whispering in the Marquis's ear. The man's expression shifts from blissful to thunderous within the span of a heartbeat, and Jaskier scrambles off his lap as he stands and makes his way out of the banquet hall, his guards following suit.

None of the guests seem to notice, however, as a solid third of them have already discarded one article of clothing or another.

Jaskier turns to Geralt and Yennefer, prepared to explain himself, yet finds them inexplicably making out. _Fucking Melitele._

"Hey— hey! You two, seriously," he waves his arm near them, trying to capture their attention. Instead, Geralt's blindly reaching out, draping one heavy arm around Jaskier's waist and tugging him closer, while Yennefer simultaneously grasps for the bard's hand. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Jaskier panics and snaps his fingers right next to their faces. Immediately they spring away from each other, appearing to sober up almost instantly.

"You're in your fucking cups," he hoarsely informs them as they both frantically gather their bearings. 

Their proximity is tempting— Jaskier hopes his tone doesn't betray him fully. "Here," He presses the necklace into Yennefer's palm.

Before she can reply, Geralt's inhaling sharply. "There's a gathering at the gate— a large one. Angry." 

"What? No—that's not supposed to happen until _after_ Mabon," Jaskier counters shakily.

Geralt ignores him. "Get your things," he instructs, pushing back from the table. Jaskier snatches up his lute and holds it protectively to his chest. Around them, the revelry continues unperturbed.

The witcher reminds Jaskier to move with a rough tug at his upper arm, moving in the direction of the exit. As the bard follows, he catches the eye of the violist, widening his eyes and nodding towards the general direction of the gate to convey his message. The musician glances between Jaskier and the witcher before stiffening with the realization. The others immediately stop playing and begin to pack their instruments away.

"What's happening?" Jaskier asks breathlessly as they tear through the corridors. "What about your contract?"

Neither of them answers his question. Instead, they're bickering furiously at each other under their breath. The bard can barely catch any of it.

"He's bound, he'd not going to be able to leave," Geralt's growling in a way that could almost be considered emphatic for him.

"It'll be fine, I can overpower it," she's hissing back. The witcher grumbles something in return.

When they finally reach Jaskier's room, the bard puts his foot down. "Hey, so I'm sensing that the timing is a bit unideal," he begins diplomatically, "But I really need to know what's going on here."

Yennefer tuts. "He's smart— _very smart_ —and he's been using your own nature against you. We need to get you away from him."

_What? Who?_

"What nature— you mean, like, my music?" The bard replies, trying not to feel as stupid as he surely sounds. "Also, who and why?"

And then Geralt's turning on him, his movements sharp with exasperation. _"Jaskier._ What is the Marquis's name?"

Jaskier frowns at the abrupt shift in conversation. "Pardon?" 

"You've been here two years, Jaskier— _what is the man's name?"_ The witcher is enunciating each word carefully, the way he always does when he's trying to make a point.

 _"Oh_ — it's," Jaskier racks his memory— he only ever addressing the man in question by his title. "Huh, you know, I'm not sure—"

Geralt grips Jaskier by the shoulders, forcing him to hold his gaze. "His name is—" Jaskier's fascinated by the shape of the witcher's lips as they form around his words. The bard jerks back.

"Sorry, what? I wasn't paying attention— one more time." 

And Geralt repeats himself. _It's funny,_ Jaskier thinks, because he registers the rough timbre of Geralt's voice, recognizes the sounds he's making with his mouth, but when Jaskier goes to repeat them, it's like sand through his fingers. He's trying to remember the syllables—Geralt _just said them_ —but his head is pounding now, and the bard thinks he might be sick all over the stone floors.

"I think—" he gasps, swallowing down bile as his stomach convulses. "I think something may be wrong."

"He's hidden his name from you," Yennefer's at his side now, one of her cold hands resting on Jaskier's flank.

"Seems rather pointless," Jaskier remarks, because why would someone go through the effort to obscure their name, but only from the bard? That makes no sense at all. "And how?"

"Unclear," Geralt grunts.

"He's got access to some sort of chaos," Yennefer adds. "I think, maybe— _yours?"_ She sounds uncharacteristically doubtful of herself.

Another pulse of nausea rolls through him, and he spits a mouthful of saliva onto the ground. "I don't have magic," he helpfully reminds her. "Unless you're talking about my incredible sexual prowess." 

Yennefer utters a noise of disgust and removes her hand.

Next thing Jaskier knows, Geralt's heaving the bard's pack and lute case onto his own shoulder and manhandling him out the door.

The three of them manage to reach courtyard undetected. In the open night air, the roar of an angry gathering—no, a _mob_ — can be heard from beyond the outer gates. The sky is inky black and the orange light of lit torches creeps over the top of the wall. 

"He'll die before he leaves," comes a cold, flat voice from behind them. The Marquis stands in the middle of the outer corridor, his eyes bottomless, emotionless things. It strikes a bolt of true fear through Jaskier. _People aren't supposed to look like that._

"It'll be by his own hand, if it comes to it," the man continues. "I can make him do anything."

_Who— Jaskier?_

Geralt and Yennefer respond by widening their stances, as if coiling to fight.

The Marquis looks on unimpressed. "You doubt my word? Would you like a demonstration?"

"We'll pass, thanks." Geralt bites out. 

"Hmm, are you certain? I could make him take you in his mouth— he's quite good at it."

Jaskier scoffs and side-eyes the man nervously, "Excuse me? _No,_ you couldn't-" _What game is being played here? To what end?_ "—But I appreciate you recognizing my considerable carnal talents, truly, I do." He turns to look at Yenn. "See?"

Geralt ignores the bard altogether, his attention fixed on the Marquis. "I'm not putting down your peasants," he intones evenly, "and I'm not leaving without my bard."

"Oh, I'm _your_ bard now, am I—" Jaskier begins, but it's harshly cut off.

"Julian, take my dagger and put it to your throat." The Marquis snaps, holding out the knife, hilt-first, towards Jaskier without even so much as a glance in his direction.

Jaskier's dumbfounded by this turn of events. "Uh—no? I'd rather not, thanks very much, Your Grace." 

Except, _wait no,_ his own legs are walking him right up to the man, and now when he glances down, the blade is somehow already clenched in his own fist, his forearm's raising, wrist angling just so—

Panic floods his gut— _what kind of magic is this?_

Yennefer's voice, cold and furious, cuts in from behind him: "Julian, drop the blade and come to me."

And oh, _thanks gods._ He hears the dagger clatter to the stone floor before realizing he's even loosened his grip. Then Geralt's rushing the Marquis in a blur of silver and black, the blade of his sword winking under the torchlight, and Jaskier's being forcibly spun around to face Yenn. She tugs him closer by his jaw, holding his gaze as she whispers into the pendant and then crushes it between her fingers. Dust streams to the floor like sand in an hourglass.

_What the—_

A series of vivid memories floods his conscious like a wall of water— one of them louder than the rest. The night he met the Marquis.

 _With three, I have three_  
_While two begets two  
But when one, I have none_

Oh gods, it's _so simple,_ one of the oldest riddles in the book— Jaskier had known the answer before the Marquis had even finished the phrase. But he remembers thinking, _what was the harm in purposefully losing the game?_ The man was attractive, looking at Jaskier with clear interest— like the bard was _worth something_ — and he wanted to hear Jaskier play his music. 

And even when Jaskier had been made to forget the riddle as soon as they shook on the terms, he hadn't cared, because really, the bard had had no other—

" _Choice_ — the answer is choices," Jaskier gasps, his limbs trembling with the weight of his conviction. Something knocks loose in his chest and suddenly he can _breathe_ — he hadn't even known couldn't breathe until this very moment. His body is light and free and he's nearly delirious with the feeling. Jaskier hasn't felt like this since— well, since he was on the road with Geralt.

There's a sickly wet thud and the Marquis— _Cain, his name is Cain_ — groans lowly. Jaskier doesn't even catch a glance before Geralt's herding him and Yennefer in the direction of the stables. They run now, hearing the iron of the gate bend to the will of what sounds to be a battering ram.

Roach is stabled in the cavalry shed. She's hoofing one foot into the dirt nervously but looks otherwise well. Geralt mounts her saddle with the same ease as he breathes, while Yennefer helps herself to the grey mare in the adjacent stable. Jaskier casts about, wondering if he, too, should find a steed, before Geralt's physically lifting the bard onto Roach's saddle, holding Jaskier to his chest as he pulls Roach's reigns.

Nearby, the iron gates whine and then give with a great clamor, followed by an enormous roar as townsfolk pour onto the estate.

Yennefer throws one hand out in front her and the air ten paces away shimmers and warps. She directs her mare through the portal at a full canter, Geralt and Jaskier following swiftly suit. They emerge at the other end on a seldom-used dirt path that approaches the township from the north. When Jaskier looks back, he can just make out one of the great castle towers as flames lick up its side.

~ + ~ 

Jaskier wakes the next morning both disoriented and energized. He looks around— he's inside a spacious tent that he recognizes as Yennefer's, on a bedroll that's tucked between two empty cots. Sun filters through the canvas walls, lighting the interior with warm, muted tones. It smells of leather and earth and the floral perfume that the sorceress always wears. His cranes his head and sees that his lute and pack are sitting safely in one corner.

For a while he simply lies there, looking aimlessly at the peak of the tent ceiling, wondering if Geralt and Yennefer will let him travel with them for a bit. Just until he acclimates to the road again.

Finally, he convinces himself to roll to his feet, staggering out of the tent while rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Geralt and Yennefer are perched together on the giant remains of a fallen sycamore, leafing through a handful of loose parchment. Roach is grazing in the meadow adjacent to the grove, the grey mare who-knows-where, and the sun's a quarter of the way up from the eastern horizon. _Mid-morning then,_ Jaskier surmises.

Before Jaskier can greet them, Yenn's pointing wordlessly to a cloth-wrapped bundle next to the remains of a fire pit. He opens it— a shiny pink apple, a good hunk of cheese, and a roll of seed bread, still relatively soft. He inhales the lot and then lies back on the soft, dry dirt, watching the sunlight filter through the tree canopy.

"So," he mused aloud, "Do we want to talk about whatever was in that wine last night? Because I tell you, I've never, in all my life, witnessed such a spectacular display of spontaneous depravity— outside of Beltane, of course."

He looks over and finds both of them looking right back, wearing dual expressions of disdain.

"Aww," Jaskier chuckles, "You two are embarrassed because you accidentally displayed the barest shadow of human affection in public," he remarks, referring to their making out at the banquet table. 

Yennefer tuts and glances back down to her papers. "You're an idiot," she replies simply, giving Jaskier absolutely nothing to work with.

"Jaskier," Geralt begins hesitantly after a long silence. "You really didn't realize he'd bound you with magic?"

The bard shrugs, more than a little uncomfortable. "Everything seemed pretty par for the course to me."

"So, you _did_ want him," Yennefer clarifies without looking up.

"Eh. Not particularly," Jaskier admits. "He's a bit— brutish." He frowns at the memories.

"So, you didn't want him, yet he bedded you anyways— that didn't strike you as odd?" Yenn's tone is as cutting as ever. Jaskier thinks that assessment sounds terribly dramatic.

"More like, I was letting him bed me, so I figured I must want it," _Hmmm, those words don't sound so pretty out loud._ "And anyways, I never _really_ know what I want or enjoy," Jaskier reasons, which _is_ a truth about himself. "I suppose that's part of the problem."

Geralt's frown is deep, and he's opening his mouth to say something that Jaskier just _knows_ will upset him.

"What of your contract, Geralt?" Jaskier intercedes before the witcher can start. "I suppose that's null and void now, huh?" 

Yenn snorts and shakes her head, still not deigning to glance at either of them.

Geralt rubs at his forehead and huffs. "Fucking— _there was no contract_ , Jaskier. We've been looking for you, that's why we were in Pontar."

"Oh no, _I_ haven't been looking for you," Yennefer interrupts to helpfully clarify, "Truly, I've been searching for the Eye of Orchard. The fact that you and it were in the same court was merely a coincidence, so I reasoned that the witcher and I should join forces."

Jaskier rolls his eyes outwardly and internally thinks she couldn't be more transparent. _Whatever she needs to tell herself,_ he thinks, almost fondly. Almost.

"You were looking for me?" Jaskier asks Geralt incredulously. He's not sure he believes it.

The man grunts his affirmation. "For a year-and-a-half," he adds. "Your trail just— _vanished._ It was _Cain_ that contacted _me_ — he was aware of the growing rebellion, wanted me to snuff it out."

 _"Huh."_ Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek and looks back at the tree tops. "Melitele, I can't believe he knew me as kid and just— _didn't tell me._ Truly, who _does_ that?" The thought makes him feel particularly disgusting, like he needs to wash off in the river.

"Yes, Jaskier, about that—" Yenn starts, but stops abruptly. Jaskier turns his head. Geralt's got one hand on her forearm, and the two of them are frowning at each other, clearly going through a sort of wordless argument. 

Jaskier eyes their easy physical contact and breathes through the punch of envy.

~ + ~

Later in the day, Geralt catches a few rabbits for dinner, and Jaskier upends his pack in search of the cinnamon and peppercorns he _knows_ he's tucked away. He's kneeling in the tent, his worldly belongings spread in a circle around him, opening all the little drawstring pouches he packed—one of them holds all the spices.

He's refolding his court finery when he hears Geralt enter the tent behind him.

"Geralt, I've almost found my spice pouch—just wait until you try this dish I've learned about. One of the cooks taught me, and truly, Geralt, it is _divine_ —aha!" He finds the muslin bag and retrieves a stick of cinnamon easily, then has to delve to the bottom to get a handful of dried peppercorns.

"Hmmm," he hears Geralt's considering tone somewhere behind him. "Jaskier, what's this?"

Jaskier turns to him, one hand still rummaging in the bag, and immediately chokes on his own saliva. The witcher's got Jaskier's toy clutched in one beautifully weathered hand—the polished bone phallus that Jaskier paid handsomely for in Cizmar. The artisan had dyed it pink with elderberry, lending a novel realism that had delighted Jaskier when he'd purchased it. Now, the color leaves no doubt as to its intended purpose. 

Jaskier inhales sharply through his nose and fixes the witcher with a glare that probably more closely resembles panic than outrage.

"You know what that is," he hisses under his breath. "Put it back!" He gestures emphatically to his own pack, as if he has any means whatsoever to make Geralt acquiesce.

Geralt's half-grinning at him now, one eyebrow cocked in subtle amusement. He glances between Jaskier and toy. "So, it _is_ yours," he clarifies. Jaskier feels his entire neck flush with heat. 

"Obviously," Jaskier mutters at the ground. 

Geralt moves the object from one hand to the other, as if testing its weight, its sturdiness. "And do you enjoy it?" He then asks, his gaze intense with a heat that Jaskier cannot place.

 _Fucking what?_ Jaskier thinks, grasping for the trailing thread of this conversation. All he can glean is that Geralt is clearly reveling in watching Jaskier squirm. The bard's gaze flits between the toy, the witcher's face, and the tent's entrance.

"I— _what?"_ Jaskier stutters breathlessly, shaking his head to convey his bafflement. This is not a conversation he's _ever_ imagined having with the man.

 _"Do you,"_ Geralt's leaning forward now, enunciating each word in his gravelly rasp, _"enjoy it?"_

There's a brief, absurd moment where Jaskier seriously contemplates laying himself face-first onto the ground in order to escape this conversation. He looks from the wall at the side of Geralt's face to the upper right corner of the tent, then towards the apex supported by the central pole. 

Jaskier's caught between two competing emotions— the embarrassment of Geralt's discovery and the indignant conviction that he has nothing to be ashamed of. There's just something about _Geralt_ knowing, that maybe, sometimes Jaskier likes being made to submit, that makes him feel some strange unspecific way. Especially in light of all the recent disasters.

"Yes." Jaskier finally settles on. "Feel free to end this conversation at any point," he adds a bit hoarsely. 

Geralt snorts, replaces the toy where he found it, and holds his hand out for the spices. The bard passes them over wordlessly. After the witcher leaves the tent, Jaskier takes more time then he'd like in order to compose himself. _Ah yes,_ he reminds himself. _Back to a life style of consistently mortifying myself._

~ + ~

After dinner, the three of them lean back in the soft grass, enjoying the stars before they retire to the tent.

"So, what's the plan then, Geralt?" Jaskier asks. "Where to next?" The bard hopes that the witcher hears the question he's actually asking.

"Hmm," Geralt considers, both Jaskier and Yennefer turning as they await his response. "West, I think. We should head towards Kerack."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm IN LOVE with the idea of a changeling that grows up believing it's human. So much of Jaskier's canon character already lends itself so well to the idea. Follow up to come: Jaskier realizing he's fae, with Geralt and Yenn's guidance, and more romantic development
> 
> Comment for love, suggestions, thoughts, etc.


End file.
